I don't want to clean

.

I have cleaned, again and again,

each part of my external eye

with the sweet saline of a cry

only to see it will need to be cleaned

again.

I have also cleaned, with the same

frequency, the part seen through my eye.

Wet, drenched, and sopping; with its trouble

it slugs, burdened, through my new, internal sea.

Tell me that my eyes are not

the only to see what looms ahead,

nor what weighs, like a plow, behind.

Were these tears not caused by the future,

forged in the fires of past mistakes?

My heart begs that neither is too true,

that neither is our present.